At work, I took hour-long naps in the supply closet under the stairs during my lunch breaks.

My brain hurts and I cry all the time. I don't want to be here on Earth for one moment longer.

You seem depressed," she said with concern. I said I wasn't depressed; I was just bored. I hadn't considered that if the only thing that keeps you going all day is knowing you'll get to turn on the TV after dinner, you probably are depressed.

I want downers, that much I know," I said frankly. "And I want something that'll put a damper on my need for company.I'm at the end of my rope," I said. "I'm an orphan, on top of it all. I probably have PTSD. My mother killed herself.""How?" Dr. Tuttle asked."Slit her wrists," I lied."Good to know.

When Reva gave advice, it sounded as though she were reading a bad made-for-TV movie script. "A walk around the block could do wonders for your mood," she said. "Aren't you hungry?""I'm not in the mood for food," I said. "And I don't feel like going anywhere.

Right," I said, but it didn't feel very right. I didn't want to make it. I wanted to lie down with it and strangle it and kill it and save it and nurse it and kill it again and I wanted to go and forget where I was going and I wanted to change my name and forget my face and I wanted to drink and get my head ruined but I certainly hadn't thought about making it. That wasn't anything I'd ever sought out to do.